August 2004

ISSN 1480-6401

INTRODUCTION
Rebecca Lu Kiernan
Moon Blues
CONTENTS
Josef Lesser
WELCOME
SPACE
Remember Mr. Munch Remember
and i will mount............
Movies of the Mind
Give me a number between
A Teacher of Flying
His Story
I know what I want to say
fragments of a letter washed ashore
innocence
Words -- Wrestling in a Word World
Clifford K. Watkins, Jr.
The Helm of Madness
The Walking Aborted
The Purpose of Genes
May River Madness
Moments to Minds to Madness
Stone
To Venture Alone
Marianne Kirby
Exercise in Voyeurism
Roger Taber
CHILDREN OF THE CENTURY
BEYOND BELIEF
CROCODILES IN THE WATER
IMAGES OF LOVE
HEART OF DARKNESS
HITTING HOME
Steve Klepetar
1. April, 1967 - My Father Explains Surrealism in Central Park
2. Blind
3. Children of Slaves
4. City of Lights
5. Clown of God
Lorcan Black
The Old Mill Wheel
Prodigal
Sestina on a Starlit Night
STRONG>After-tow
Ted
Mystic Touch
Homage to the God-born
Fate of Milo
Crystalline Shatters
Terminal Velocity
POST SCRIPTUM
Rebecca Lu Kiernan
Ascension

Rebecca Lu Kiernan
Moon Blues
~~~~~~~~~~
What will you give me for comfort
When my time comes?
A lock of your gently graying hair
In a ring box?
The seed of a plum?
A foil blanket for Ganymede's nights?
A recording of Mike and the Micros
Reluctantly singing "Summer Breeze" for tourists?
A holding tank for telepathic octopi on Carme?
Photographs of empty architecture
And broken statues of saints
From your rainy, solo trip to Europe?
A syringe for extracting
Immortality microbes on Metis?
Your rhombus, lavender rock star glasses?
A steel jar for gathering brainworms on Callisto?
A barking frog from from Blue Lake preserved in amber?
Intergallactical reply coupons for Thebe?
What will I send you for remembrance
When the earth's shadow falls between us?
The egg shell, bat-wing shirt you removed
With a whisper?
Tons of unmined, shark's eye silver diamonds
Beneath Europa's icy sea?
One splinter of a weeping willow?
Shape-shifting gold from Io?
A platinum sheet of lightning
From the storm we conjured
Naked on your back porch?
Sleep on it if you can,
And when I am irretrievably deep in space
In that quadrant you sketched from a dream,
Shrug off the sparking ghost of me
Drunk on your reluctant song,
High on your tentative smile,
Arching for your open mouth.
What will you embrace, aging rock star?
A cold post card of shadows
Eclipsing our old blue moon?
A molecule of your affection
Twitching in a formaldehyde pan
You thought about giving to me?

Josef Lesser
WELCOME
~~~~~~~
Birds
When they dive in the bath
slosh --- dive out
towel themselves dry with a flutter
dive again
repeat
sip the waters
pirouette to
relax on a twig
relaxed --- bathed
somersault to
nibble seeds
back to the twig
satiated banter
dreaming --- meditating
you can be sure the birds have found
their utopia
and presented mine
giver and receiver are one
Is there a word in the language?
Jan 03
SPACE
~~~~~
(Columbia)
Space ---an elephant absorbs an elephants weight
a single ant as much as it can;
between trees does it dance, does it run
does it skip having fun or just slumber,
what does it do between the church pew
and the choir, is the space reserved for you know
Who; of course He would know,
and at sale time between legs
on the shopping mall floor
I'm sure it develops a migraine,
would love to breathe some fresh air
in the street behind the exit back door,
in our fist tight as vice we have space
as we do in our mouth clenched and clamped,
in the manicured garden of graves a formal design,
in battle
on hills between dead and the dying space
drops, exhausted silent still this blood-shot place,
too large at times injects a fear
an overcoat of doubt against the chill,
too small robs breath, amputates
the flow dictates our need to flee to find and trace
our private border our secret face --- our space;
as seven once beyond the wall of sound
beyond the overcoat
flew to search where few have searched before --- found
their space then made a pact to stay for evermore.
Feb 03
Remember Mr. Munch Remember
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
(for Edvard Munch "the scream")
Mr. Munch I nearly went insane on the bridge, remember?
Remember Mr. Munch
remember. You were there as me
I had to be you, you me me you us as one.
Remember?
Tangled in the dripping palette of the setting sun, you as I.
When one is another the saw of insanity screaches in the forest
lost in the trees of our thoughts
waiting to slash our dreams
scraping teeth rip highways through bone
through trumpet and drum
through the throttled cough
the saw has reached the lung.
Remember Mr. Munch
Remember?
Parched roses fade,
so we witness
how the falling petals closed your mother's eye.
I spy with the tarot of my eye
down side up outside in
hangman and jester are one.
Loki seduced all your angels
charred in the cradle of sin
angels and hangman are one
Edvard
can I call you Edvard,
call you back to the cradle
back to that twelve in December.
Remember Edvard
Remember?
=
Nov-03
and i will mount............
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Darker than danger
faithful as light
and i will mount the stallion
stabled on the childhood ceiling of my dreams,
and i will gallop stride for stride the midnight desert wind
where hills astonished will part like the red sea
time will embrace each flying grain of sand.
And i will barter in the market for dates and olives
share the wine and share the smoke
of pain relief of undiscovered miracles of talk.
And i will lead the search for buried books
then in triumph present the words and signs
to you and you and you and also you.
Then will i slash the sails of indifference
the rafts of ignorance will float anchorless and lost.
And i will sit on the cushion of philosophy
handing out wisdom coated almonds, raisins of faith
from the hand of truth with the eyes of question
and you will seek me out for the answer.
For in the house of the answer lives the secret
the seeker in the desert the market the hand,
the seeker of the flame lighting birthday candles
inside the quite oasis planted with the palms of age,
palms where now i comfort myself in that other me
content to watch the dark stallion graze;
Still faithful as light still stabled
somewhere on the childhood ceiling of my dreams.
June 03
Movies of the Mind
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
My mother always had a front row seat
in fact the only seat, within the theatre
in her Mind. Sat for silent hours watching
reels of stolen time and all the yesterdays
she had to leave behind.
Within her Mind the theft of youth on film, a time
when girls could touch the skirt of dreams
and look for love, boys could touch the skirt of girls
and look for dreams. When it was still fun
to skip rope at seventeen. She felt once more
upon the private screen the taste of rain,
so sweet upon the tongue and strawberries
tasted like strawberries should.
I know she watched each frame a thousand times
could freeze each moment at her will.
In every town one day the boots of war,
the thieves of time kicked down the doors
kicked dreams downstairs kicked
all the sweetness from the rain.
Strawberries will never taste the same again.
My mother sat for silent hours
watched the reels unwind, rewind and play again,
as others sit someplace alone
from dingy rooms to penthouse tops
from cells to crowded wards watching
watching all the scars of hurt, and a child
a child is far removed from such pain,
from tears upon the floor like grains of rice.
Only knows that boots are laced to score a goal
and strawberries always taste nice.
All the yesterdays she had to leave behind
my mother stored on film within her Mind.
July 02
Give me a number between
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
(pantoum for Sierra Leone)
Give me a number
my ears are burning
ash falls to the rhythmic
blows to crack open a skull
My ears are burning
a number between
blows to crack open a skull
like an egg for an omelet
A number between
the bodies and parts
like an egg for an omelet
broken discarded and buried
The bodies and parts
single double and triple
broken discarded and buried
a nose two breasts and toes
Single double and triple
a mother two daughters all three
a nose two breasts and toes
on fire as candles without wicks
A mother two daughters all three
a father a husband makes four
on fire as candles without wicks
as their pain dissolves with the smoke
A father a husband makes four
what importance the family name
as their pain dissolves with the smoke
and the world finds excuse in the haze
What importance the family name
their homage to God on the walls
as the world finds excuse in the haze
and leaders united don glasses of lead
Their homage to God on the walls
falls in ash to the rhythmic despair
and leaders united through glasses of lead
Squawk ------- give me a number
Jan-04
A Teacher of Flying
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
( for Tintoretto)
Eh! Tintore
how many angels to-day
did you learn to fly?
five you say
and how many saints
one
just one.
But oh! what a saint
you say, ay Tintore.
You are the master;
I see how devoted your hand
is to your eye
and your eye to your soul.
In your doorway
all is revealed
all strokes, all tints
the strength of wings.
How you harness the sun
to obey your command;
glow this place
this face
and here for eternity.
Learn me to fly!
you cannot you say
I am but a man
you say --Tintore.
You are right,
but a man inside from the storm;
lightning thunder and rain
we share the same
but only you, yes you
sip the wine from the grape
from the vine
nourished and tendered
by angels who soar into time.
Jan 03
His Story
~~~~~~~~~
I remember reading his story, days flying kites
fishing, wrestling on the sand his father's arms
strong from work in the mines, gentle with his son.
Holidays hiking sharing jokes sharing fantails sharing
father and son. For a moment in my astral zone I watch
best friends shaking hands, communion of birds deep
inside the rain-forest, unselfish acts on history's stage.
Time in reverse through the portholes I travel a voyeur
inside the galaxy plane then jump, free-falling falling --
All flows until page eighty two raises the curtain, a scene
change develops and a new player enters stage left
a drop-out from A.A. the monthly pay cheque ritual;
life and whisky transform the miner's arms, hands
that yesterday unwrapped the fantail now out of sync
break doors break chairs break his day, the story.
Reading, I thought of my father and thanked God
nothing similar ever happened to me. I remembered
once just once he took me to a movie he wanted to see.
Jan-04
I know what I want to say
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
After the sermon, after the silence
After the proverbial crash of the pin
I spoke "you are brain washing your
Flock, hiding behind obscure cures,
Obscure words from some obscure
Parchment, you are a fraud".
I knew what I wanted to say
A PhD. rabbit in language
Revealed the way and I said it.
Like at the pizza place I know,
"Family size house special
Extra chilli easy on the garlic".
"Return single window seat."
"Sorry I'm late plane was delayed".
Always the rabbit feeding me words.
Take this morning for example,
Nudged awake by a poem, an alarm
Moving in off-shore balanced on the crest
Riding the wave into my thoughts;
And I want to say without delay --
"Rabbit, where the fuck are you"?
Jan-04
fragments of a letter washed ashore
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
24/12/ ----
my dearest my love are you wearing a watch tell me the time are you
wearing a hat are you hot are you cold remember the heat on our -----
---- moon we swam in waterfalls and drank cold champagne ----------
silver the waiter sang and strummed guitar like ---------------------
tell me the time are you wearing a watch my time left can be counted
on the fingers of your right hand are you cold in my dream a man the
colour of history as old as eyes whispered have faith in the ocean--------
your final words to the tides you loved the waves when-----------------
are you wearing a hat reading my letter tell me the time of day tell me
a story remember the tale of the child with no name who could -------
develop into a complete person but you my dear ----------------
------------------ yes so many ways tell me a story how our souls met
first and then introduced us to each other we ----------------------------
then waltzed to the tune of the moon are you wearing a -------------
my time left can be counted -------------------------------- cold ----
was the colour of history as old as eyes my final words will ------------
the tides the waves you love the -----------------------------------
and he whispered you will find this letter because our souls met first
----mates always always are you wearing a hat maybe the --------------
you bought from the market in the valley when we lost our way -------
remember the gypsy reading my palm she saw the ocean ----------------
looked melancholic ---------------------------------------------------------
and only yesterday like fast foreward video all our days --------------
---------------- tried to press play but it stuck and flashed and-----------
tell me the story one last time how our souls met first then ------------
to each other we kissed under the stars ------------------------------
moon tell me the time any number my mind hears only tick tock ti-- ----
minutes days seconds heartbeats grains of time on ----------------
where are you is it hot is it cold are you --------------------
my feet are cold my ice feel lips my lips are yours my --------------
forever ever ever tell me a story tell me a --------------------------------
tides waves as old as eyes ---------------------------
are you wearing -----------------------------------------------
my soul will know yours when next we meet in ------
remember the gypsy glimpsed the ocean a bottle a talisman ----------
words locked in glass my --------------------------------------
are you wearing a watch we drank cold champagne flutes ----------------
tell me a story tell me a story my ice are feet my lips ------------
forever my dearest countdown is over are you cold --------------------
-------------------------------------------------------------
Dec-03
innocence
~~~~~~~~~
(this war on t.v is real Iraq)
the seagull understands balance
wings from God skim the wind
without wings the bird skims
only in the past of its mind
the young boy understands stones
arms from God skim the waters
without arms the boy skims
only in the past of his mind
the whale the cheetah the frog
the you the him the her the I
try to balance the see-saw
understand the wilting stones
wings the bird skim the wind
arms the boy skim the waters
God waits to be understood
only in the past of our minds
April 03
Words -- Wrestling in a Word World
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Milk is such a simple word, having fallen from that large word puzzle
that scrabble in the sky it fell on its feet safe and sound. The trumpet
screamed the voice in monotone chanted "MILK here we have milk".
But hey! wait on, consider instead if it tangled and landed with a crash
twisted and dazed "KILM here we have kilm" a terror chant drumming
or think of CROSS missing the target mis-shapen " ROCSS here we ---
and once upon the rocss he died.
Its a long way to come down to earth, the more strings attached
the multiplied chance of a knotted prang. Waking bandaged=20
plastered stitched "BETWEEN here we had --- BEENWET here---"
I cried on the table
tears in the sink
soaked was my mind
straining to think.
In a word world always put your best letter forward
lead from the font, allow reason for others to chase.
Do you recall the young days when learning the skill
of 'Word Wrestling,' crossing the span as well as the t
dotting your presence as well as the i. At times were
you betrayed, choking and gasping while that lost
letter, the timeless search turned to ash in your throat.
In the beginning was the Word
and the Word was desolate
younger than time
older than fire
searching for like
and like you will find,
soon it spread faster than lies
grew older than time
circled the world
tripped over itself in the rush
the flag of confusion was hoisted
from oceans of rubble and slush.
Would "w" repeat "w" please join rong in the front
while qotation is puzzled. Do we need you "u"?
and once I lost Mr. "x" couldn't play the ylophone.
A window looking in
A blind umbrella for the sun
A trumpet A litany A drum
Awesome
A radioactive spray
Such a simple word is A
"A here we ---"
Jan 03
Clifford K. Watkins, Jr.
The Helm of Madness
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
you're the vision that I'm lost w/out
roaming whatever realm the mind seeks out
jousting at immaculate skies
your eyes like vivid stars illuminate my darkest dreams
bedazzling the night sifting what seems
your face
a vermilion dream
so ethereal
so divine
time is out
nothing is in
where to begin
I'm a coward much to my chagrin
with each glance I cower
and don't know how to begin
I'm a fiend
a drunkard
a fool for your bitchery
mired in misery
eccentric
and utterly blue
there's nothing I can do
It's futile
I love you
you're so lovely
and I'm a fiend or something
traveling thru shades of doubt
roaming whatever realm the mind seeks out
only empty recollections season that room
roaming whatever mind
whatever realm
nothing's sacred beneath the helm
The Walking Aborted
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
the realest word is pain
motorists steeped in a traveler's brain
easily annoyed
an angry convoy
death is the new porn
awake reborn
flowers wilt
a blend with the earth
come again
what's it worth
one sin
dancing strangers
temptation
danger
flawless whores with no reason to entertain
spotless floor
just come again
does the orgie end
and amid this lunacy
fools on passenger trains
feasting
breeding
searching for something
without this heaven is nothing
eager road is dust full blown
towering tunnels
a vast cemetery
and liberation never known
enter the civil forest
examine
contemplate
and complain
wisdom is the silent chorus
accept
relate
and remain sane
some things can't be explained
maybe outer space is god slamming a door in our face
forgotten beings
maybe we've been misplaced
rejected
or snorted
Maybe we're the walking aborted
The Purpose of Genes
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
no one knows why we dream
only that we're here for the purpose of genes
that are carried on by expedient lives
unable to crack the enigma of minds
so lost w/out a clue
we feast
breed
and die
polish our statues
and ponder the sky
dying with every subtle hue
slowly progressing experimental beings
smothered by reality
eaten by oneself
a feast of finality
maybe some day we'll attain immortality
some say inconceivable
never
who'd want the burden of living forever
imagine the boredom of a two-hundred-year bender
lost with depression
tired of being high
sedentary sighs
and ultimate surrender
it would be too much for even the most devout pretender
give me a muse
a reason to read
to write
and to be confused
the numbing pain of unattained love outshines ample tranquility
if only it doesn't kill me
we're all so alone
numbing the pain
so tired
and stoned
counting the days beneath gods on hour glass thrones
I want to go home
but I'm carried on by easy lies
as colors travel thru my eyes
bored with my sins
restless depression sighs
forget suicide
for far greater uncertainty resides
death
nothing's more perverse
don't get any worse
but life is the real trip
trying not to slip
and go cascading down
like an overzealous clown atop a burial mound
I love life
there's nothing more than this
only a promise of bliss
could be grandeur
may be worse
mere dregs of the universe
trying to rise above the rabble
a performer spewing useless babble
trying not to unravel
I hate the drive
but love to travel
May River Madness
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
a fire burns between a circle of fiends
bedazzling eyes
descending from a sky of strange stars
the river's mouth gaped
senseless
deranged
rapidly sparks fly
embers lie
and reflections linger unchanged
souls swirling in the night
fools jousting at stars
so wishful
so bright
Moments to Minds to Madness
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
got my shoulders don't need wings
a morsel of knowledge is all I bring
so senseless
so blind
so ethereal
so divine
this yearning I can't define
these thoughts embody all that's mine
an existence so lost in mind
searching for something that I'll never find
tears descend from inclement eyes
we're so trifling
and skies never clear
clinging to shards of life hardly residing here
reflections on calm waters distorted by skipping rocks
racing the clock
another heart stops
the functions of feeling
thoughts reel
and ideas are spilling
to think
an invitation to sink unknown
moments to minds to madness
a world abandoned full blown
Stone
~~~~~
we're just stones lying in a hollow
all so alone
lifeless we reign
and rest unknown
if only for tomorrow
might we shed our bloody bones
we're scarred by wisdom
it reminds us that we're alive
like playing with fire
or running with knives
for every living head thousands lie hollow
for those who lie insane comes the burden of tomorrow
for those who die in vain
we cling to sorrow
I want to be consumed by dreams
and madness in motion
the rolling of tongues
and television screens
To Venture Alone
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
to venture alone
a single stone hurled into winds of anguish
I can't surrender
I'm a void with nothing to relinquish
I'm a joke
a trivial game
I could be anything
taking the lord's name in vain
a muffled scream
a mad dose of reality
mere fragments of a dream
I'm alive
I'm dead
the universe swirls in a severed head
I'm safety
I'm danger
I'm your friend
I'm the seedy stranger that sows the seed
the shard
and only remainder
Marianne Kirby
Exercise in Voyeurism
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
He wanders through the neighborhood at night
using the weightless bounce of astronauts on the moon,
ignoring the street signs and navigating instead by the stars.
The familiar landscape is different in the dark.
Lighted windows call to him, displaying life
as it is happening to someone else, but never him.
One day, he hopes, he will find himself on the other side
of the glass, laughing and loving and happy inside his house.
But until then he walks until well after midnight
spying on the dreams of his neighbors,
watching over the man who mows his lawn at 6am on Saturdays,
watching over the woman who walks her dog in his front yard,
watching over the children who play their music too loudly
making his rest uneasy, his afternoon naps disturbed.
He likes them all much better when they are not awake.
Because he rarely talks to others
the gossip is rich and as full of flavor as stuffed grape leaves.
At various times, they say, he has been everything:
a used car salesman, a lockpick, a hitman,
the mayor of a small town in Alaska,
a teacher, a diplomat, a hitman.
They like the idea of former danger in their quiet suburban midst.
In reality, in his reality at least, he has been none of these things
thought once, in his youth, he applied for a job at a used car lot.
In some other universe, he has been all of these things
as have his neighbors and their neighbors and their neighbors
and so on until they all merge with his shadow.
Tonight he wanders through the neighborhood
and in the morning he will sleep
while the people in the houses around him
get in their cars and drive to work, exhausted
from warding off prying eyes they don't even suspect.
He will begin the process again, after midnight,
and things will not change -- because things rarely change --
until he has bled the details of their lives
into his imagination like a warm blanket on a cold afternoon.
Roger Taber
CHILDREN OF THE CENTURY
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Wandering dark tunnels,
lost and afraid;
Regulation torch for company,
imitation fur for the cold;
Batteries running low,
heartbeats erratic;
Which way to go?
(Hard, not to panic);
Where there's life, there's hope
or so they say;
Live to fight another day?
Brave words - when the Dark
is rising, Styx threatening
to burst its banks;
Press on, negotiating
all infernal terrors;
Pinpricks of light - comedy
of our errors, played
out to the end;
Look. Listen. See.
Hear rescuers descend?
Faith, Hope, Charity,
round the next bend
reappearing--
Children of the Century
found wanting
BEYOND BELIEF
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Some say he sought freedom,
preferring martyrdom
to a life repressed;
Others point to sentiments
expressed that expose him
a fundamentalist...
waging war against the world
with Holy Word, and
lightning sword;
Some say he followed a star,
find glory in his
bravery;
Others name him a Messiah
come in peace, driven
by fire...
to desperate measures
conspiring against
us;
Some say, brainwashed
as a child to choose
suicide...
no conscience for the agony
heaped on body bags
at a roadside;
Death, a prize (some willing)
well worth the tears
in a mother's eyes...
either side of a Great Divide
that demands its children
take sides;
Some call him a Dark Angel
that did not know him
as well as she...
who knew his fears too well,
saw tears fall, final
choices made,
sent alone, small and scared
to bomb the world,
no one spared
CROCODILES IN THE WATER
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A common slaughter,
Third World dying
for want of clean water
Children's laughter
turns to crying,
a common slaughter
Each young-old grafter
grown sick of trying
for want of clean water
At some capital altar,
disciples denying
a common slaughter
A 21st century arena
found sadly lacking--
for want of clean water
Through gold teeth, eager
summit tipplers belying
a common slaughter
for want of clean water
IMAGES OF LOVE
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I sought and hoped to find you,
elusive though you were;
Each night I'd dream about you,
though your image a blur;
I'd reach out to you with heart
and soul, achieve my goal,
only for the cold light of day
to expose as nothing more
than wishful thinking, hope
without real foundation,
figment of a child's imagination,
a comfort in escaping
now and then from the daily toil
of trying to survive a growing
desperation, find a way
to live compatible with such
longing, such need
On images of love, we feed
Each night I dream of you still,
your image strong and true;
I reach out to you with heart
And soul, achieve my goal;
When day breaks up my reverie,
I retrieve all the pieces,
cherishing a reality that makes
my own parts complete,
savouring the warmth of you
since last we embraced,
recalling, vividly, every detail
in your face, every nuance
of our being together even when
apart, once-lonely hearts
of love and peace assured,
compatible with such
longing, such need
On images of love, agreed
HEART OF DARKNESS
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Eyes glowing in a premature darkness
like cat's eyes on a loping highway
during a storm;
Padding its way with stealth and guile,
brushing past giant leaf and fern,
in Brobdingnag;
Concrete jungle all around, wings
of steel pitted against
natural instinct;
Paths strewn with giant leaves,
secret paths, poetry
and prose;
Hear the lion roar, rearing and pawing
at the sky, unbowed by
heaven's eye...
flashing like daggers at Caesar's back,
taking the Beast through its paces
until it drops, exhausted;
Apes, swinging here and there, eager
to mock a weary lion - but
steer well clear;
No confrontation, else a feast of claws
leave a ruin beyond salvation,
torn pages of Darwin;
Let the Beast lie still, while it may;
Hunters and hunted will find
each other out...
About to discover moon creatures
can never match us eye for eye,
tooth for tooth
HITTING HOME
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Flung open the door, smile on the face,
fist at the jaw, fallen to the floor,
waiting for more;
Eyes closed, mind shut tight to it all,
homing in on a single happy time
before things fell apart;
Breaking heart in pieces on the mat,
angry tongue making the lips bleed;
a bad day at the office;
Blows lessen, cease; a thousand terrors
and sick with humiliation
for this love of ours;
You'll go upstairs, slam the bedroom,
door, be down in about half an hour
for supper - in what temper?
Tomorrow, a rose; any tears, yours (on
these so-bruised cheeks) - forgiveness
again, compassion or passion?
If I try to pray, even God asks why I stay
and when I confess no idea, a dear
familiar voice calls me a liar--
Where I found strength to love you,
I must find the same to leave you
or be like your rose
In a smashed vase
Steve Klepetar
1. April, 1967 - My Father Explains Surrealism in Central Park
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
My father sat on a green park bench
reading the New York Times.
Suddenly an angel appeared, tall
and fair, splendid white wings unfurled
in the warm spring breeze. He offered
my dad powdery white cookies,
Vanilli Kipfle, from a crinkly bakery
bag. They ate and spoke
in German, softly, in civil tones
addressing each other formally as "Sie."
Later my father explained to me:
"That is surrealism.
A man in a gray fedora is reading
the Times on a park bench
when an angel sits down beside
him with a bag of Vanilli Kipfle.
They speak of Heaven as though
it were a city they both knew well
thirty years ago. With mutual joy
in such unexpected company, they
recall beloved landmarks - a clock
tower in the center of town,
the lovely old bridge and sweet
familiar river flowing out toward
the countryside, cafes and
restaurants where one could eat
fine meals, with wine and strong
espresso, for the equivalent of fifty cents."
When at last the angel takes his
leave, rising above Manhattan
like some enormous
pigeon,
sky darkening slowly over
the Hudson, my father stands, and
gripping his folded Times, marches
down steep, hard subway station steps
Into the city's roaring underground heart.
2. Blind
~~~~~~~~~
You can only look within. Windows
on three sides, of course daylight
disturbs your vivid eyes. Snow
glints off rooftops, hangs in trees
like diamond-studded pears.
In the ache of this brightness, you
must seem blind.
There where you sit, waters burn
like oil, shimmering green
as snakeskin in the Pennsylvania
woods. This silver gray city smells
of chestnut smoke and subway
steam, copper, sweat and newsprint
running like black rain along glass.
Sages tumble back from four thrones
of gold, empty as night. Shadows
seated in the dark, a conference
of wraiths. Who will deliver
the keynote speech?
Who will invite the guests to eat
and drink their fill? Who will speak
of this when hot winds burn everybody's
eyes? Deserts stretch
across mountains like golden dragons
bleached by clouds.
See how busses rumble uptown
in their warm, green beauty? So many
riders holding money in frail
hands, so many going home already filled
with glory and wine.
Lambs graze on mown grass, awkward
camels feed on leaves in the park or bend
to drink from clear streams along the avenue.
Old men eat dates hung on sweet branches, children
laugh and race where puddles mix with sand and broken glass.
3. Children of Slaves
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"Her song sounds the emptiness of the beach
and the ocean, echoes the distant cry
of the sea eagle, calls for the return screech
of the black cockatoo."
Richard Flanagan, Death of A River Guide
She sings to the surf without cease,
her mouth a cave leading to halls
of sorrow. All around paintings flicker
to life on blue-veined walls.
Handprints swirl, giant petals
like ochre spirals of bloated stars.
Her breath smells of vision and smoke.
She drinks the salty air, eyes swollen
to black pools. No tear tracks stain
her cheeks. Seabirds soar and call
above whale pods and herds of seal.
Slaughtered bodies float near shore.
She sings like a scream to the mercy
of ears. All who have bled can hear.
She sings through centuries.
Raising her black arms to the sun,
she sings to ancient ships groaning
on the ocean's back, to the labor
of rivers crashing through hills.
Her voice sounds the agony of chains.
Before the sacred table, we cry
and recall. We too are the children of slaves.
4. City of Lights
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Farewell to the City of Lights.
Here at the end of the world,
we are caught in this hot breath
of wind, moaning from deep
southern lungs. Our eyes ache.
We stand dazzled at brilliant
portals, nearly blinded
by steel beam neon
streams. Island of beautiful
cages, we have entered you,
followed musty paths into
your roaring iron heart.
Pilgrims crouching like strays
block your streets, clog
metal-green alleys. Hungry
as rats, we have learned
to want nothing, paid
with coins to have our fortunes
told. We have placed our faith
in glass. Our shins ache.
We dodge and swell
in the tide of your endless
sea of legs. Bodies shine
and glisten like beads.
Farewell to green and golden
air, voices mingled in a smoke
of sound. We have come
to be transparent as beasts,
wise as gray birds cooing,
swollen wizards in the dome of sky.
5. Clown of God
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I wake
to the mystery
of your day.
Above my head
holly burns,
red fruit glowing
in black flame.
All night I have
risen from the plain
of sleep. My eyes
run with invisible
tears. Impossible
blue whales sluice
through gray ocean
of sky. Like giant
swallows they fill
the trembling air
with song.
Oh moon, you dead
mirror, you aching
hole of love!
On the mountain
of revelation
I call your dark
face, I who claim
nothing, I who am
the clown of God.
Somehow blessed
I have passed
unburnt the angel
with fiery breath.
Laughing in solar
winds I have
clutched
the necklace
of skulls in my
ridiculous
bleeding hands.
Lorcan Black

The Old Mill Wheel

A hundred rings millimetres apart,Lengths by ten longer than IDecorating concentrically the stump-faceBy the Mill wall. The mouth of time has eaten the Surrounding earth, roots like tentacles showingTheir spidery limbs to the daylight.

I am a particle the mosses cannot match:I am neither ignorant nor green,Unclinging am I to the face of another,Though it passes in an eye blink.The Old Millís wheel is turning,Churning stagnant waters into harsh motion.

The lush hush of the foamy streams siftingUnder in a gentle splash, weeds dipping their Pale green heads to the water edge, gatheringStrength in the churning, this new Making of waves.Opaque green, like bottle glass,

Pulling me under with the wheel,A great timber eye roving round,The creak and grind, I spy, I spy, I spy.The wheel cannot keep up with theRushing stream, racing through the Woodlands to the Old Mill,

And already the blackwater laps at myStony shore, seeking me with itsEerie tides. The salt-wash singingAt me from the sandy shallowsLike Neptuneís opportunist sirens.If I close my eyes there is no such sea.

It is all merely a whisper or a Vague possibility threatening me.I am neither ignorant nor green,It will not have me.

Prodigal

Troublous the black bird rufflesAnd rests querulous on a statue of Saint Jude, the bronze smeared to a dull gleam.Furiously the planets turn,

Madness is a circle round and round,Blue the brimstone burns Beneath this umber ground,Hear it hiss.

I have grown in darkness throughA barren, sulphurous soil,My roots have burned in the earth,I am prodigal, prodigal.

Sestina on a Starlit Night

Windswept plains under bright starlightShow off the weaving, feeble ripplesOf the long stalked grain in the sleeping fields.Hunched on weather-worn fence posts rest black crows,Their feathers slick and matted by rain,Falling less and less.

The fish, leaping splashless,Slicing easily the ripplesLeft on the black surface water by rain.From the arbour over hanging the waters, crowsCaw under the starlightSky, of natureís providence are they trustless.

But nature herself is secretless,Unknown to these selfish pinchers, these crowsKeep cawing, hunched in rainLike old, bickering men in silent fieldsRowing over whoís to plough. StarlightHas seen brighter nights, the ripples

On the smooth waters cease, ripplesOf wind uptake the chore, the fieldsAre blown dry, and again the grain is moisture-less,Fit for grinding upon picking but the crowsAre cawing louder still, the rainHas died and a starlight

Sky sparkles, a certain type of starlightWhich makes the lonely grain fieldsFlicker pale gold, and in wind, ripple.They have strained their throats, the crows,Cawing as they did, senseless At the onslaught of rain.

The sky, twinkling with silver starlightIs raging jealous, fury ices her face, for these fieldsGlow resplendent in comparison to her, even the foul voiced crowsSilence meekly at her wrath, her withdrawal of light, and the rainKeeps coming down in sheets, now restless.The sleeping land senses her anger for it ripples

And frenzied I cut at the cord,But this rusted knife drags stubborn - - -

The cutting gritty and caustic,And the paraphernalia of past crises cling

To me like unwanted children.With gritted teeth I

Tear the bloodied things off me one by one.These scars endure.

I am haunted by phantom beings of the deep;Mouth of dark, the glass edge,Sharp steel and blood red.

Ted

Here is the heart that beat, that beatWith yours Ė does it bleed? Are we the same?I used to dream Nazis abducted you in a boat on the Seine,To separate us, to spite me.

But I dreamt you had ordered it, and I,I was the Jew, the Jew who stupidly mourned you.On the roll lay my name but the NaziWho came was you, Ted, you.Black boots, black belt and sadistís eye,

With a crooked hooked black-on-red cross Adorning your shoulder and thigh.Your dark red runs through my veins Ted,Since then Ted, since then.Were we ever the same?

Pack me off on the train to Belsen then,A lame sheep to the slaughter.Iím not suited to your black-booted-brute rťgime.Or perhaps you could ignore me and ICould rise in the morning and metamorphose.

I could discard my sulphur star, for it ails you,And don a black shirt and cap.I could be more like you, with your goose-step,Your hasty judgement, and whip-crack verbal-attack.I have a cold, cold heart like a cold, stone beast like you.

This witless creature is our final trial, Ted.You stand authoritatively at its end and I its headLooking it over with gleaming pride,Itís your latest victim, you said.I wonder if itís symbolic, mine Nazi, mine Nazi,

But of what, our former friendship? Your red swastika sting and appals!And my yellow star makes you sick.Bludgeon it then, with your brute butcherís cleaver,Hear it holler and yell.

We buried it under a Cherry Blossom in July,With harsh words and a dismissive goodbye,Summer was symbolic: without you I grew.Your suppression reduced me, you user, you user, you.But Iím better, being shot of a backhanded bastard like you.

Mystic Touch

A dark hearted CaesarAfflicts me with its bone-white handAnd will not let go.I cannot see reason,Only the record less void.

Sense has been knocked outAnd thoughts float like atoms:Boundless and nameless, a spaceUnknown and unexplained.This is the grand Plateau:

Stretching like infinity; the cat clawsYawning out to scratch, scratch, scratch.New moons rise and fall,Faceless deceivers--- they too are stricken.This is a Heaven shameless and lawless,A cold chaos

Homage to the God-born

How were you chiselled from thoseEternal rocks beneath?Or did you spring to earthGod-born of your Fatherís shank?These many months I have slaved like a madPenelope, working to break your stone bearing.

Through the stone-chippings I have uncovered aBrilliant alabaster that so stuns.Neither man, nor weapon shall your faÁade chink,Nor aberrant entity hazard.And I the unborn LazarusWanting aught of covert words ---

Are they held fondly in hock?Heavenís comets shudder to a stop,I draw down the moonWith her silvery kissesLending me strengthAnd fighting spirit ---

What unearthly King commissioned you?With your crown of curls andLiquid azure eyes.We bear a cross, splintered and rough-cut now,Shall we burn it and be free?

Hoof and horn, hoof and horn! Whatever dies shall be reborn!And oh how the golden calf bleats godless!Wandering the cliff-tops by a Red Sea,Casting sacrilegious circles in sand.

Fate of MiloFor Tim Mulligan

Your fingers are bleeding from whereYou tried to tear the oak in half.Amber and red leaves fall to a callous earthIn twirls and swirls around where you Stand, defiant and colossal,An untouchable demi-something-O do not rip it any further,

The ruin is too much for eyes To bear, these two halves, Moulded and shaped through natureísMarble grew together which no Manly arrogance should destroy;Skies go singing with a deafening crack,I have been struck by lightning shafts!Shooting me like Icarus out of the light, thus propping meHere- little daft socialite- where all

Others run careless, who shall watch for waves?Snaky branches are strangling in the cool hiss of a breeze,The trembling cobra tails of barkSway as though to snap back.These splinters-- do they catch?Tremulous leaves are weeping whereThey tremble and shake, fearful.Mindless this is!

The very roots are quaking!You canít match this strength,Panicked fingers nervous shake and tremble, O do not rip it any further!The laburnum has liquors, try such arrogance on those.This recklessness is the stuff of sap drippings:Warm and sticky, clinging like an unwanted mistress.

A New Age: The Centipede Network Of
Artists, Poets, & Writers
An Informational Journey Into A Creative Echonet [9310]
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